Madder Skies of Fire
by Maidenstear
Summary: The Beginning of things was rather unexpected, but he would use this gift until it was nothing more than useless dust, like his past.


Aneko: It seems I'm getting into the Geass mood. You know? It was mostly inspired by the track "Madder Sky" from the r2 OST, which I just bought (makes me sooo happy). It's a very beautiful track, please try listening to it sometime.

It's drabbly, I guess…Each paragraph is a statement that may or may not connect to the next…I don't know…Please bear with me, I've never written something quite like this before…Maybe that's why I checked it over so many times before posting it.

Disclaimer: This author does not own Code Geass: Leleuch of the Rebellion. Che, like I'd want a handful like Leleuch to deal with. And don't even get me started on Suzaku…

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Madder Skies of Fire

The Beginning of things wasn't really a complete surprise to him. He had known the day would be coming, he just hadn't expected the opportunity to arise so soon. It was a blessing that he intended to use up until it was nothing but useless dust, like his past.

Things have started, and his plan shall become the tower that will capture the attention of the world and be engraved in its history for ages to come.

"Are you prepared to accept the consequences of such a world?"

It would be fine. He calculated the outcome of _all_ his endeavors. In theory, he knew what he would have to do.

In theory he knew the sacrifices that would have to be made.

In theory he knew the pain he would inflict on others, intentional or otherwise.

In theory he knew the cost.

In theory.

Too bad reality is always ten times the strength of his theories. Ten times the strength of his lies. He was used to lying to everyone else, so why not lie to himself as well? It would just be another drop in the bucket, like all the others.

And how fast was that bucket filling up, again?

He presses the palms of his hands to his eyes and relishes in the darkness he finds there. Just the nothingness and the feeling of his skin. He wonders if in reality, being blind is such an unfortunate thing. Perhaps it is actually a blessing. Oh, how that left eyes aches with the weight of souls.

"Do you regret it?"

He had never really understood that word. It wasn't _regret_, not exactly, but something softer and harder to name. If he had to answer that question, the answer might be that he did not know how. How could one know the answer to something that he doesn't understand? That was fine though. If regret was the thing that shook resolve, then he was better off not understanding.

For some reason, he likes to look at the sky when it is full of large white cumulus clouds. They float across the blue expanse so effortlessly, like they are surfing an endless ocean.

When did he forget how to smile? He looks in the mirror and sees two different people, both of whom are strangers to him. Should he choose one and discard the other? He turns on the shower to the hottest temperature, and the mirror glass fogs up instead.

Once, when he was little, he found a dead butterfly outside the house. It had been a beautiful iridescent blue and golden, but the colors had been sullied by the mud and the days, and the gossamer wings were now torn. For some reason, he couldn't take his eyes off of it. He stared at it until the sky went dark and the stars woke up. He could never forget the sight of such a death. And it would only be the first.

"What is it you're trying to accomplish, exactly?" she asks with that disconcerting stare.

He gives her the answer he always does. What else is he supposed to say? That he's come to some sugar-coated answer that will make himself a wonderful hero? Drop in the bucket.

Back when she had lived, his mother once took him onto her lap, speaking in her soft, musical voice. "Do you know about the number zero? It is the number that means 'nothing.' But it can also have different meanings. It is before the negative and before the positive—above everything. It is a very special number."

Once, when he was little, he found a dead butterfly outside the house. It had been a beautiful iridescent blue and golden, but the colors had been sullied by the mud and the days, and the gossamer wings were now torn. For some reason, he couldn't take his eyes off of it. He stared at it until the sky went dark and the stars woke up.

The burning hatred he felt after her death never went away. She could no longer take him onto her lap and tell him the kinds of stories he wouldn't understand until much, much later. Was this the kind of feeling that made grown-ups start wars and enslave nations? He didn't know. After all, his perspective was only a portion of the world. The only thing he was certain of was that he would not allow them to use him ever again—he would not be a tool.

Every time he puts on that masked suit, it seems to be heavier, and demand more from him. So very heavy. Sometimes he considers just never putting it on again. But then he thinks of a girl who can't see and a people who are crushed, and again he dons his mask of lies and bears the weight in silence.

"Your mask and your justice are only born from lies!" The white head shouts.

Maybe so. It is what he is best at, after all. He tells himself that the words do not bother him.

He remembers a time as a child—only one summer in his life—when the high heat shivered and wavered on the ground and the cicadas lamented. He remembers a boy with serious eyes and a girl who can't walk. Even so, he remembers that they smiled at him. He remembers the humidity and the sounds, even in the far off distance, of war and death, as if it were yesterday.

Though he was still just a child, he had felt even then that there was something acutely wrong about the world, a sadness and a rage that he never quite understood. It seemed that the other two felt it as well, and so three children set about to make their own refuge amid the raging of the world. It was small, and it was short, but it was theirs, and in that place they created just a glimpse of peace.

Maybe that was what he was trying to accomplish, years later. Maybe that's what they _all_ were trying to accomplish, in their own ways. Three people, pulled apart by the pain they caused each other and their different desires to accomplish a wish—in the end, who would be able to succeed?

He was called a genius once, by some faceless, forgettable adult. It makes him roll his eyes. Just because he is good at chess and creates good strategies, they dribble on about his abilities and stare at him in awe. He thinks they would make good sheep for that man to lead—his philosophy that "men are not equal" would not be lost to them.

He has always hated the card game solitaire. While playing chess, there is always a hope of winning, no matter how high the odds are stacked against a player. As long as he can think of a good enough strategy, he is able to win. But with solitaire, there is no choice but to rely on luck of the draw. He doesn't stock much faith in luck. Then again, when has he really had much faith in anything? He's too used to betrayal.

The tower he has created so intricately is nearly complete. What kind of tower should it be?

A tower of bloodshed.

A tower of lies.

A tower of hatred.

A tower of pain.

A tower of destruction.

A tower of "justice."

A tower of deceit.

A tower of hope.

A tower of worlds.

**To The Future, Let Us Go Brightly.**

And so, he begins to turn the world in his hands. He feels the weight he has dragged behind him to get to the place where he is now and breathes in deeply. Now that he has finally reached this point, it is almost staggering, so much so that he always tells himself, _Don't look back_.

The World as it was, The World as it is, and The World as it will be. He cannot bear to see the things he has planned and the things he has done. It leaves a strange taste in his mouth, and he feels almost sick. Almost. This should be the part where he stands proudly, his back straight and a smirk upon his face and words of triumph upon his lips.

All he can do is laugh, a broken and twisted distortion of sound, and wait for the end that he has written out in this well-staged play. He was never the main character, anyway, only the supporting role that is a catalyst in the pages of history. So he sits back and waits.

There is only one ending fit for a being like himself—himself as he was, himself as he is, and himself as he would be. But he has poured so much of himself into the world that he is afraid there is nothing of Himself left, the prince and the boy who once was. Nothing left to be, no_where_ left to be.

He has no place in the peace he's created. He stretches out a hand, trying to figure out why he was able to achieve it back in that one summer when the cicadas cried and the heat melted everything, but not now. Not Now.

The End of things completely surprises him. He had known the day would be coming, he just hadn't expected it so soon. It is both a blessing and a curse. To be able to leave the world he is responsible for.

As the liquid red runs down his chest, he looks out at the faces he knows, and the faces he doesn't.

He thinks of towers and sacrifice and lies.

He thinks of how he never did learn to like the card game solitaire and of the number zero.

He thinks of what has been lost and what has been gained and everything between.

He thinks of hatred and sadness and the darkness of blindness and death.

He remembers a child's peace and smiling—their eternal smiles.

He remembers a mother's gentle voice and a dead butterfly.

Himself as he Was, himself as he Is, and himself as he Would Be. The last drop in the bucket is always the loudest.

He looks into the sky one final time.

There are no clouds.

Before him lie only the madder skies of fire that burn in their eternality.

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Aneko: So? What do you think? Criticism is mightily welcome, but make it constructive, if you will.

Of course, this is all working under the assumption that Lulu really is dead...


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